Glad now for the dark room, which hid his own fears, Incomo agreed. ‘Of course, my Lord. But this is not the time.’
‘When!’ he shouted, his bellow hurting Incomo’s ears. Desio kicked at a pillow, then lowered his voice to a more reasonable tone. ‘When? She contrived to escape my father’s trap; and more: she forced him to dishonour his own pledge for the safety of a guest, compelling him to kill himself in shame.’ Desio’s agitation simmered higher as he recounted Mara’s offences against his house. ‘This . . . girl has not merely defeated us, she has humbled – no, humiliated us!’ He stamped hard on the pillow and regarded his adviser with narrowed eyes.
The fan slave shrank from the expression, so like that of Jingu of the Minwanabi when roused to rage. Bleeding from nose and mouth, but still trying valiantly to cool his sweating master, he raised and lowered his fan in barely unbroken rhythm while Desio’s voice turned conspiratorial, a harsh whisper. ‘The Warlord looks upon her with amusement and affection, even favour — perhaps he beds the bitch — while our faces are pushed into needra slime. We eat needra droppings each day she draws breath!’ Desio’s scowl deepened. He stared at the tightly closed screens, and as if seeing them stirred a memory, a glint of sanity returned to his eyes for the first time since Jingu’s death. Incomo restrained a sigh of open relief.
‘And more again,’ Desio finished with the slow care a man might use in the presence of a coiled pusk adder. ‘She is now a real threat to my safety.’
Incomo nodded to himself. He knew that the root of Desio’s behaviour was fear. Jingu’s son lived each day in terror that Mara would continue the Acoma blood feud with the Minwanabi. Now Ruling Lord, Desio would be the next target of Mara’s plotting, his own life and honour the next to fall.
Although the stifling heat shortened his patience, Incomo attempted to console his master, for this admission, no matter how private between a Lord and his adviser, was the first step in overcoming that fear, and perhaps in conquering Lady Mara, as well. ‘Lord, the girl will make a mistake. You must bide your time; wait for that moment. . . .”
The jade-fly returned to pester Desio; the slave moved his fan to intercept its flight, but Desio waved the feathers away. He glared through the gloom at Incomo. ‘No, I cannot wait. The Acoma cow already has the upper hand and she continues to grow stronger. My father’s position was more advantageous than my own; he stood but one step away from the Gold Throne of the Warlord! Now he is ashes, and I can count loyal allies on one hand. All our pain and humiliation can be placed at the feet of . . . that woman.’
This was sorrowfully true. Incomo understood his master’s reluctance to speak his enemy’s name. Barely more than a child when her father and brother died — with few soldiers and no allies — within three years Mara had secured more prestige for the Acoma than they had known in their long, honourable history. Incomo tried in vain to think of something soothing to say, but his young Lord’s complaints were, all justified. Mara was to be feared, and now her position of power had increased to the point where she not only could protect herself, but could directly challenge the Minwanabi.
Softly the First Adviser said, ‘Recall Tasaio to your side.’
Desio blinked, momentarily looking stupid as his father never had. Then comprehension dawned. He glanced about the room and noticed the fan slave still at his post, despite the blood trickling from his broken nose and torn lip. In a moment of unexpected consideration, Desio dismissed the unfortunate wretch. Now alone with his adviser, he said, ‘Why should I call my cousin back from the war upon the barbarian world? You know he covets my position. Until I marry and sire children, he is next in succession. And he is too close to the Warlord for my taste. My father was wise to keep him busy with affairs upon a distant world.’
‘Your father was also wise enough to have your cousin arrange the Lord Sezu’s and Lanokota’s deaths in the first place.’ Hands tucked in his sleeves, Incomo stalked forward a step. ‘Why not let Tasaio deal with the girl? The father, the son, now the daughter.’